Wednesday, October 24, 2012

My
neighbors are quiet people. I rarely see them, but when I do there's
always a friendly wave or a warm smile. We almost never interact, so when
they asked me over for dinner I was a little surprised. And truthfully a
little uncomfortable - I had gotten used to our somewhat antisocial
relationship. I had grown accustomed to our distance. I'm a bad
liar, so it was easier to say yes
than to make up some excuse. They told me the night and the time and I told
them I would be looking forward to it.

I'll admit that I had a very nice time. We didn't say much
during dinner, but I felt welcome, comfortable, and relaxed. Closer to 8:00,
I noticed they had begun glancing at a clock on the wall. Often, and with
great discomfort. And then with a palpable panic.

They feigned reassurance when I asked about their change in
demeanor. They both attempted to explain their behavior in overlapping
dialogue. I found this particularly unsettling. Over their frantic
words, I announced my appreciation for their hospitality and began to stand.

But then he asked, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

I
was startled by the question and very uncomfortable. I wanted to
leave. Badly. I answered his question and told him that I had an
open mind to such things. And he asked me to sit.

He told me that he and his wife have had experiences.
He said that their house had a presence...a ghost. He said that it came
often. Every night in fact. He said it started in a corner of the
basement, came up the stairs, opened the cellar door, and walked through the
living room, into the dining room, and through the furthest wall. He
pointed at the wall next to where I was sitting.

I realized this was the purpose of the invitation. They wanted a
witness. Needed one. I could only think of two
questions: What does it look like? and When does it happen?

He answered my last question first: At 8:18.Every single
night.
We looked at the clock on the wall - 8:12.

Then he answered my first question: We don't know what it looks like.

When I asked him to explain, he told me they had both been unable to look at
the presence. He said he and his wife have tried all these years, but
can't. I found this absurd. And the entire story, which I had
actually begun to believe was now either a hoax, a distasteful joke, or a
delusion of two very disturbed people. I pushed back my chair and stood.

A noise. From under our feet, in the basement. They looked down at
their plates. I looked at the clock - 8:18.

I could hear deep slow labored footsteps. They sounded miles beneath us,
but I knew that wasn't the case. And then I felt the vibration. A
sickening wave of a nauseating low hum forced me hard into my chair, my legs
and knees weak and useless. I could hear the basement stairs creaking
underneath a massive shifting weight. I wiped cold sweat from my
face. The nausea was unlike anything I had ever felt. I heard the
knob of the cellar door be gripped, and then turned. Slowly. The
door began to open. The vertical crack of darkness from the creaking door
seemed to release an even more intense low frequency hum. I tried to
stare into the darkness, to see. To see IT.

But the putrid vibration was overwhelming. My body contracted. My
legs and arms were drawn inward. My entire body gripped the chair.
I could feel the muscles of my face contorting, and my eyes, as much as I
fought to keep them open, closed. Tight.

I could hear It. Moving across the wood beams of the living room
floor. They seemed to be groaning and splitting. The sickening waves of
vibration seemed to rattle every loose object in the house. I wanted to
cover my ears, but the piercing hum kept me frozen in place. I tried to
scream out, but the muscles of my jaw refused. So I listened to it, coming
closer and closer. Ripples and waves of the sickening sound covered
me. I felt myself on the verge of fainting. And I welcomed it.

But then It was gone. I opened my eyes. Just the three of us, in a
quiet undisturbed house. Nothing seemed out of place. Except for
the open cellar door.

That was three months ago. We haven't spoken since. And each night,
despite making every effort to be busy or out of my house altogether, I find
myself standing at the window which faces their house. Looking out across
our ordinary lawns. Staring at that wall. At 8:18.

Your stories are the best! Spooky as all get-out, and like your others, this one will have me thinking about it for quite a while.How you manage to put so much character and content into a short story is a gift - to you and to us.Thank you.

Well I'm sure you can tell I'm new to your blog. Altough that may be the case, you have been a very large influence on me with my Halloween creations for the last few years. Now that being said, discovering your writings have now brought a completely new appreciation for the craft of short story writing. I just told you the other day how much I enjoyed Night Shift but this one gave me goosebumps, had me short of breath, and had me looking towards my stairs. I wanted you to know this because when a writer can invoke such a powerful response from the reader, well I believe it is the underlying reason he puts the pen to the paper. Just tremendous sir -